The Last Hunter - Lament (Book 4 of the Antarktos Saga) (7 page)

“We’re the same age,” I remind him with a weak voice.

“Right,” he says.

“I’ll be fine in a minute,” I add and then change the subject. “Your people are on the coast, right? At the end of the river?”

“There’s an aircraft carrier group just off the coast. I’m sure they’ve got an FOB set up by now.”

“FOB?” I ask.

“Forward operating base,” he explains.

I make a mental note to find a book about the armed services and read it cover to cover. Would make speaking to Wright a lot easier. Then I dig into a satchel hanging from my hip and take out the modern mapping device I christened
maptrack
. I found it on a Chinese General who’d been killed by the Nephilim. It helped me find Em, Kainda, Luca and the others, but I have no need for it now. I show it to him. “Can you program the coordinates so these men can find their way to the FOB?”

He takes maptrack and looks it over. The touch screen display is in Chinese, but he seems to have little trouble navigating through the options.

“Can you read Chinese?” I ask.

“No,” he says, pushing buttons. “But the interface is fairly common and the icons are universal.” Then he’s done. “All set. They can follow the river most of the way.”

I take the device and look at the map. “There aren’t any dots.”

“It’s a GPS device.”

I’m about to ask what GPS means, but I think he’s catching on to the fact that I’ve missed out on the last twenty years of technological advances. “Global Positioning System. It uses satellites in orbit. The signal can’t go through a mountain, so the positioning dots will appear once it’s outside.”

When I look up from the device, a sea of faces is staring at me. The freed prisoners have gathered around us, filling the hallway. Kainda and Em have taken up defensive positions on either side of me, their hands hovering just over their weapons.

“They’re waiting on you, boss,” Kat says to me.

My dizzy tiredness is replaced quickly by a horde of frantic butterflies in my stomach. They’re waiting on
me
.

“Kainda, Em,” I say, “Can you keep watch?”

Both nod and walk through the crowd, heading for either end of the hall. While the citadel is fairly quiet, this is still a Nephilim stronghold. There isn’t a lot of time. Now if I can just figure out what to say.

Maybe it’s the lack of a threat, or the laser-like focus of my captivated audience, but I’m suddenly very uncomfortable. “Umm, hi.”
Stupid
. Next, I’ll thank them for coming. Not that they’d understand me.
Ahh, that’s where I’ll start, the language barrier
. “Can those of you who speak English come closer?”

“I believe we already have, mate,” says an Australian man in green fatigues.

I look at the inner circle of men and see a kaleidoscope of nationalities surrounding me. “Where are you all from?”

“I’m a Kiwi,” says the man I thought was Australian. Kiwi is a nickname given to people from New Zealand. “One of the few remaining, I’m sad to say.”

I look to the next man.

“Turkey,” he says with a nod.

I look from one man to the next, and they rattle off their respective countries. India, Russia, Pakistan, Iran, China, North and South Korea and Germany. When they’re done, Wright and Ferrell are tense. “What’s wrong?” I ask Wright.

“Not all of them are exactly friendly to the U.S. or each other,” he whispers.

Some of the nations represented here were enemies twenty years ago. It’s disheartening to hear that things haven’t changed. They will now, I think. “Your individual countries no longer matter,” I say.

Several of the men tense. I’m offending their national pride. But I don’t back down. “You’re all here because of a global catastrophe. Billions died. Entire countries were wiped out. Many of you probably lost families. Maybe your home towns.” I have their attention now. “This event was
not
natural. It was the opening attack in a war on all of humanity.” I leave out the fact that the repositioning of the Earth’s crust was caused when Nephil’s spirit momentarily took control of my body and supercharged my abilities. I don’t think that would go over too well.

“You are no longer men from opposing forces. You are united.” I realize I’m not asking if they agree with this. The truth is they don’t have much of a choice. Then I add the real kicker, “You are
my
army.
My
soldiers. And if you want to stop
our
enemy, you will do as I say.”

I fully expect some of them, if not all of them to object.

But they’re silent.

I look at the men around me. They’re unsure. Their training and loyalty to their individual countries is no doubt at war with the things they have experienced on Antarctica.

It’s the Kiwi who responds first, perhaps because, like he said, there isn’t much left of his homeland to be loyal to. He snaps a salute and says, “Lieutenant Elias Baker, at your service.”

One by one, the other men around me offer salutes. The gesture is different from country to country, but the intent is the same; I have their allegiance.

I motion to Wright. “This is Captain Steven Wright of the United States Special Forces. He’s going to tell you how to reach the U.S. forward operating base.”

“And then what?” Elias asks.

“You wait for us to join you,” I say.

“But they will shoot us,” says the man from Iran.

I hadn’t thought of that.

But Wright has it covered. “If just one unarmed man approaches the gate, hands up, you can deliver a message from me. It will go straight to the president. They’ve seen what we’re up against. They’ll take care of you.”

“Until then, Lieutenant Baker is in charge,” I say. “The rest of you can translate his orders.” I don’t think they’ll like it, but if memory serves, no one has a beef with New Zealand. The fact that no one argues proves it.

“Captain Wright is going to take you to an armory,” I say to Elias. “Take everything.”

He nods and grins, clearly happy at the idea of being armed again.

I turn to Wright. “Have Kainda explain the quickest route to the jungle.”

Back to Elias. “Stay under the canopy. Move quickly. If you’re confronted by Nephilim—”

“Remove the ring,” Elias says. “Shoot the forehead.”

I smile and nod. These men are experts. A real army.

“Go,” I say.

Wright and Kat make their way through the crowd. Baker and the other English speaking men follow them and soon the entire mass of men moves quickly and quietly around the corner, headed for the armory that will give them a fighting chance.

Despite the number of soldiers, they move in near silence, fully aware that they are deep in enemy territory. I stand my ground, nodding at the men who make eye contact as they walk past. Some whisper their thanks in a variety of tongues, and I do my best to repeat the words back to them. I’m as thankful for them as they are for me.

Then they’re gone. As the last man rounds the corner toward the armory, I turn around and look at Pan’s corpse. I feel nothing for the eater of men. He’s now just an empty vessel, his spirit, or whatever Nephilim have, has become nothing. I’m struck at that moment by the realization that I now believe men have souls that continue living after death. After everything I have seen and learned, how can I not? The belief that men are like this dead Nephilim is so sad, so horrible, that I cannot comprehend how atheists live, believing they will simply cease to exist at the moment of their death.

My eyes linger on the giant for just a moment before turning and seeing a second corpse—the man that Pan killed. I stumble toward the body, still feeling drained. When I see the pleading look frozen on his upturned face, the last of my strength fails me and I fall to my knees. His dead eyes stare at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the man as tightness clutches my throat. “I should have saved you.”

A gentle hand touches my shoulder. I can tell it’s Em without turning around. “You can’t save everyone,” she says.

She’s right, I know. The Nephilim are likely killing human beings all over Antarctica as we speak. But this man was right in front of me. I
saw
him die. One moment, he was living and looking at me with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. The next, he was dead, killed violently to spite me. My logical side can get past it. The man would have died if I hadn’t been here. His decapitation might have even been merciful compared to what Pan had planned. But my emotional side, the part of me that used to be Ull, feels a burning hatred for the killing of this man, and a deep sadness for those who will miss him.

I’m about to tell Em how I feel about the sanctity of human life, when an angry voice says, “In the name of Zeus, what happened?”

I look up into the eyes of a hunter I do not know. In the second it takes me to see the man’s Olympian garb and the twin whips strapped to his hips, Em has flung a knife at the man’s heart.

7

The knife is knocked to the ground by an unseen force. It lands at the hunter’s feet. The man’s eyes go wide with understanding. “It’s
you
.”

Em draws two more knives, but it’s not necessary. The hunter backs out the way he came—and runs.

“What did you do that for?” Em says, wheeling around on me. I can’t remember her ever being so angry with me before. I see the look of a hunter in her eyes. But then she reels it in. “He’s going to get help. All those people you just freed are going to die.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, still on my knees.

She helps me up. “Solomon, even if those men get their weapons, if they get caught in Olympus, surrounded by hunters, warriors and who knows what else, they are going to die. And don’t tell me you will protect them. You can barely stand.” She sighs, shakes her head and says, “If only Tobias had a few more weeks with you.”

I note that she no longer calls Tobias her father. It seems she’s come to accept that her actual father might still be alive somewhere. But I don’t bring it up. “He’s not going to get help.”

“Are you part gatherer now?” she says, oozing sarcasm. “Did you read his mind?”

“I don’t have to read his mind, Em.” I step away from her, standing without help. “He’s a
hunter
. Think about it.”

She understands after just a moment of thought. “Fine.”

Hunters do not run from a fight. They don’t back down against insurmountable odds. And they would never, even in the face of death,
run
for
help
. Death would be preferable. They wouldn’t even call for help. That this hunter saw me, recognized me and then bolted can mean only one thing, and before I can explain it, the man returns, saying, “There he is.”

There are five of them, three men, one woman and a girl around my age, which is to say she looks eighteen, but could be forty for all I know. All are strangers to me, but Em says, “Zuh?”

The younger girl steps forward. “Emilee,” she says. “What are you doing here, you—” She sees the cages and her eyes go wide. Her mouth clamps shut for a moment and then she says. “Where are they?”

“Wait,” I say. “Don’t answer that.” They might not be attacking us, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fool. “Let me see your hair.”

It’s a vague request, but they all understand what I’m getting at. Zuh, whose dark black skin would make her nearly impossible to see in the darkest recesses of the underground, steps forward. Her blood red hair is like a pom-pom around her head. It’s the first bona fide afro I’ve seen on a hunter, but it fits her. She’s scantily clad, wearing brown leathers, but also has a menagerie of chains crisscrossing her waist and chest.
It’s her weapon
, I think, but I can’t identify it.